Severe Clear sb-24

by Stuart Woods

  Jimmy stared forlornly at his keyboard.

  “Just close the laptop, put it away, and come with me.”

  “I’ll need to stop at the hotel and pick up my clothes.”

  Harp shook her head. “Time is of the essence, Jimmy. You have to be back in your office at High Cotton at nine tomorrow morning, if you’re going to have a chance to make this right. I’ll arrange for the hotel to ship your luggage back to New York, and I’ll see that your bill is paid.”

  “I need to call Mo Shazaz,” he said.

  “He won’t answer his phone. Has he ever answered his phone?” She was taking a chance here.

  “No, now that you mention it. He always calls back the next day.”

  Harp stood up. “Come on, Jimmy, let’s get out of here while you still can.”

  Jimmy stood up, closed his laptop, yanked the cord from the receptacle, and shoved it into a canvas briefcase.

  They were in the car before Harp spoke again. “Let’s use the time to the airport,” she said. “Tell me what Mo wanted you to do for him.” She listened while he talked for a while, then she spoke again. “Jimmy, you’re well out of this. You were about to get mixed up in something that would have ended in disaster for you.”

  Jimmy took out his cell phone.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t let anyone know where you are. I’ll put you into a good hotel in New York, and then I’m going to get you the help you need to get out of this mess.”

  In the airline’s VIP lounge, she waited for Jimmy to go to the men’s room before she called Herb.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “On my way home,” she said, “and with Jimmy in tow.”

  “How did you convince him to come back?”

  “I lied some, but mostly I told him the truth. Then he told me what his new employer wanted him to do.”

  “What was that?”

  “You mentioned to me your friend Stone Whatshisname…”

  “Barrington.”

  “Yeah. You said he had some connections to the intelligence world.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Arrange a meeting with you, Jimmy, and Stone for tomorrow morning. Both of you will get an earful. Uh-oh, here comes Jimmy. Gotta go.” She broke the connection.

  “Who were you talking to?” Jimmy asked.

  “To the guy who’s going to get you out of this,” she replied.

  25

  Stone was on the phone with Mike Freeman, hearing about Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, when Herbie’s call came.

  “He says it’s urgent,” Joan said.

  “I’ve got to run,” Stone said to Mike, and pushed the button for line two. “Herb?”

  “Hey, Stone. I need to set up a meeting with you for first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay, what’s up?”

  “It’s to do with one of Mark Hayes’s people at High Cotton. He’s gotten himself into something that may involve American intelligence, and I’m out of my depth there.”

  “Okay, nine o’clock?”

  “Good. I’ll be bringing my investigator, too. Her name is Harp O’Connor.”

  “Okay. I’ll help if I can. See you at nine.” He hung up.

  Nine came early for Stone; he wasn’t usually at his desk much before ten. His housekeeper, Helene, made coffee and pastries and left them in his office.

  Herbie arrived on time and sat down. “They’ll be along shortly.”

  “What’s this about?” Stone asked.

  “It started with a High Cotton employee who disappeared. Mark Hayes called me and asked me to look into it. I put Harp on it, and she found the guy in Palo Alto, California, brought him back last night, and stashed him in some way-in hotel downtown.”

  “And how does this relate to intelligence?”

  “Harp will have to explain that. By the way, I’ve been seeing a lot of her.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You still seeing Marla?”

  “Not so much.”

  Joan walked two people into Stone’s office, and Herbie made the introductions.

  “Hi, Jimmy,” Stone said, “we met once before at your big office party a while back.” They shook hands.

  “Okay, Harp, tell us what’s going on.”

  “First, let Jimmy tell his story.”

  “Go ahead, Jimmy.”

  “About three weeks ago, I met this girl named Jasmine Shazaz,” he said. “A real knockout. Almost immediately, she began telling me about her brother, Mo, who is a venture capitalist. She said he had heard about me and wanted to put me in a start-up that would make me a huge amount of money when it went public. I talked to Mo on the phone a couple of times, and he impressed me by immediately offering me twice what I was getting at High Cotton. He began pressing me to quit immediately and come to Palo Alto, where he had offices. The lease on my apartment was up, and I finally caved. I put my belongings into storage and went to Palo Alto. What I found was a rented space-one of those short-term things you see advertised in the tech magazines.”

  “Tell them what Shazaz wanted you to do,” Harp said.

  “The first thing he wanted me to do was to set up a chain of websites, where members could contact his company and each other while concealing their identities and whereabouts. He told me that this was part of a venture of his, and it would make it easier to set up a company for me. I didn’t understand it, but I started to work in this empty office. Then Harp showed up and brought me back.”

  “Tell him about the messages,” she said.

  “There was an existing website that was part of this, and there were three messages left on it that hadn’t been deleted. Each of them said the same thing: ‘All is well. I am fine,’ and they were signed ‘Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.’”

  Stone leaned forward and picked up a pen. “How do you spell ‘Shazaz’?” he asked, and wrote it down.

  “That’s some kind of code or signal,” Harp said. “I Googled Mo Shazaz: there wasn’t much on him, but I found out that Mo is short for Mohammad. That worried me. I know enough about communication among cells-spies or terrorists-that the messages probably meant that agents were in place and ready to do something. This whole thing smells of fish: the way the girl recruited Jimmy, the lack of a written proposal, the big promises, and the empty offices. Mo may not even be in this country. He could be anywhere.”

  “I’m feeling pretty dumb,” Jimmy said.

  “You’re going to be fine,” Herbie said. “Don’t worry, Mark wants you back at work.”

  “That’s a relief,” Jimmy said.

  “So you never met Mo at all?” Stone asked.

  “No.”

  “Where does his sister live?”

  “She was pretty much living with me for a couple of weeks,” Jimmy replied. “She said she had an apartment on the Upper East Side, but I never went there. All I had for contact was a cell number.”

  “And what is that number?” Stone asked, then wrote it down. “Something bothers me,” he said.

  “What’s that?” Harp asked.

  “Why would Mo want somebody at Jimmy’s proficiency level to set up this chain of websites?” Stone asked. “I don’t know all that much about it, but it sounds like the sort of thing that a bright college student could do.”

  “Well,” Jimmy said, “not to get too technical on you, but he wanted a lot of safeguards against penetration. It was the sort of thing a high-tech security company might do for him. He said there were other things he wanted me to do, too, things that would lead to software products I could develop for the new company.”

  “I see,” Stone said, though he didn’t, really. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Mo and Jasmine?”

  “No,” Jimmy said.

  “I can run down the cell number,” Harp said. “Give me the day for that.”

  “All right,” Stone said, “leave this with me, and I’ll run it past some people I know. Jimmy, you’d better go talk to Mark and get back to work.”
<
br />   “I’ll do that,” Jimmy said.

  “I’ll run you down there,” Harp said. “And, Stone, I’ll get back to you with what I find on the cell number. I’d like to speak to Jasmine, myself.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t do that,” Stone said. “Not until I’ve checked out some things.”

  “She and her brother will be wondering where Jimmy is,” Harp said. “He doesn’t have an apartment anymore, so it won’t be easy to find him.”

  “Yeah. I just want to know as much as I can before Jimmy calls Jasmine again.”

  “I understand,” Harp said. “Jimmy, you shouldn’t answer your cell phone. In fact, give it to me, and I’ll get you another one this morning.”

  Jimmy gave her the phone, and they all left.

  Stone called Mike Freeman. “Mike,” he said, “something weird has happened.”

  26

  Mike Freeman hung up the phone and called his contact at the NSA.

  “Scott Hipp.”

  “Scott, it’s Mike Freeman. I just came by some information I thought you ought to have.”

  “I’m always happy to have more information, Mike.”

  “There’s another report on Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.”

  “How so?”

  “Have you ever heard of anyone called Mohammad Shazaz, who calls himself ‘Mo’? Has a sister named Jasmine?”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  Mike could hear the tapping of computer keys.

  “That’s interesting,” Hipp said, when he came back on the line.

  “What’s interesting?”

  “They’re not in our database. Hardly anybody is not in our database. The name doesn’t even register as Muslim. Sounds made-up to me.”

  “Could be, I guess.”

  “I got a couple of hits when I Googled Mo, but nothing of substance, and I think they must be very recent, because everything on Google migrates to our database pretty quickly.”

  Mike gave him the address of the office in Palo Alto. “It’s a furnished, short-term let, Scott. I doubt if it will yield anything of value, but I can send one of my people from our Palo Alto office there to go over it, if that will be helpful.”

  “I think it would be more helpful to the FBI or CIA than to us, but I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to them right away. I’d rather they get it from the White House.”

  “What about the Secret Service?”

  “Okay, talk to them, if you think it’s necessary. I’ve already alerted the White House to the first reports of the nursery trio, and they would, of course, alert the Secret Service.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait a few days before taking this to one of my Agency contacts, and I probably won’t give it to the FBI at all, since I don’t think they’re involved.”

  “Right. Why stir them up?”

  “Will you let me know if anything else comes up in this regard?”

  “Of course, Mike, and thanks for calling.”

  Mike called Agent Rifkin, who was based in a conference room attached to the presidential cottage, and invited him over.

  They ordered lunch from room service, then Mike spread out his satshot of the L.A. area and showed Rifkin how the radials ran from the cell tower up the mountain. He held back the information about the office in Palo Alto. There was no point in swarming in there with Secret Service agents yet; it would only diffuse their efforts to protect the president at The Arrington, Mike reasoned.

  “So they’re all in L.A.,” Rifkin said.

  “Or were.”

  “I don’t like it a bit.”

  “Neither do I,” Mike said.

  “I especially don’t like it that this radial right here”-he tapped the photo with a finger-“runs right through where we’re standing.”

  “That may be meaningless. The caller could have been anywhere on that line, up to about five miles from the cell tower.”

  Rifkin just looked worried.

  “Look at it this way,” Mike said, “there is no tangible, verifiable threat to the president or the hotel. We’re just taking this bit of intelligence and overlaying our fears on it. This might be an exercise in paranoia.”

  “Just because I’m a paranoiac doesn’t mean that somebody doesn’t want to harm the president. I’m paid to be a paranoiac.”

  “My very point,” Mike said.

  Rifkin went back to his warren, looking troubled.

  27

  Hamish McCallister, aka Ari Shazaz, got off an airplane at San Jose International and presented himself at an immigration window, handing the female agent his British passport, which contained a permanent visa. He was dressed in a Savile Row suit and a necktie, very probably a rare sight for the agent.

  She looked him up and down, smiled slightly, compared his face to the photograph, then swiped the document and gazed at her computer screen. “Welcome to the United States, Mr. McCallister,” she said, handing back his passport.

  “Thank you,” Hamish replied. “It’s good to be back.” He strolled through customs with his finely made Italian luggage on a cart, and caught a taxi at the curb, giving the man an address in Palo Alto. He dozed as the taxi made its way south and came fully awake only when the driver announced his arrival.

  He paid the fare, added a tip, and the driver set his bags on the curb and drove away. Hamish disliked carrying his own luggage, but he picked up the two bags and walked into the building.

  He emerged from the elevator into an office suite that featured his younger half sister, Jasmine, as the receptionist.

  She ran around the desk and kissed him. “Welcome to the USA!” she nearly shouted. “Mo? He’s here!”

  Mohammad Shazaz came out of an office and embraced his older half brother. “We’ve been anxiously awaiting your arrival,” he said.

  “Is Dr. Kharl here yet?”

  “Arrived day before yesterday.”

  “And your computer genius?”

  “I’m afraid there have been problems there, but nothing that can’t be fixed. He bolted after three days of work, but he got an amazing amount done. I’ve hired a student at Stanford, a Saudi, to complete his work.”

  “That’s what you should have done in the first place,” Hamish said. “Now, there are two things to be done: first, find me a home.”

  “Already done. I’ve rented a large, furnished flat in a building near here. Dr. Kharl is there, already working.”

  “Have you given anyone the address?”

  “Of course not.”

  “The second thing we have to do is to move out of these offices at once. Your bringing Chang from New York has compromised this address.”

  “Already done,” Mo replied. “I’m just waiting for our computer man to finish his work. He says he’ll have us up and running by the end of the day.”

  “All right. Where’s the flat?”

  “Jasmine will drive you there and get you settled. There’s nothing for her to do here anyway.”

  Hamish shoved one of his bags toward her. “Let’s go. Jet lag is already creeping up on me. I need to have a drink and some dinner and go to bed.”

  Jasmine picked up the heavy bag. She was well muscled from working out, and he suspected she might be stronger than he.

  The flat was large, comfortably furnished, and commanded views east across the southern end of San Francisco Bay. Hamish immediately poured himself a scotch and found some sandwiches in the fridge, then Jasmine led him to the master bedroom, which featured a mirror over the bed. “My God,” he said, “the mind boggles.”

  “Last time I was in Abu Dhabi, my room had one,” she replied.

  “Where’s Kharl?”

  “Dr. Kharl is sleeping. He’s had a hard time with the jet lag, coming all the way from Dubai.”

  “Let him sleep. The way I feel, I wouldn’t be able to understand anything he says.” She left him alone. He unpacked, put on his pajamas, and crawled gratefully into bed. He was asleep almost immediately.

  He awoke the following
morning with sunlight streaming into the room, but he wasn’t fully awake until he had showered. He dressed and went looking for the kitchen. He found Dr. Kharl eating cereal.

  “Good morning, Dr. Kharl,” Hamish said.

  “Ah, Ari,” the diminutive man said, rising.

  They shook hands and embraced. “Please remember, I’m Hamish. No one must ever hear the other name.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “What is that you’re eating?” Hamish asked, nodding toward the cereal bowl.

  “Sugar Puffs. Wonderful! Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you, I’ll forage.” He found some English muffins and a toaster, then poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “So, my good doctor, how does it go?”

  “Very well,” the doctor replied. “I have everything I need, except the rare thing.”

  “That will arrive in due course.”

  “Mohammad found a very nice Louis Vuitton steamer trunk and two matching cases in a pawnshop, of all places.”

  “Even the affluent have been pressed hard during the recession,” Hamish said. “Is it presentable?”

  “They have the look of age and use. You may see for yourself,” Dr. Kharl said, then had a second bowl of the cereal.

  Half an hour later, Hamish regarded the trunk with approval. “That will pass muster, I believe,” he said. He loved old trunks, but he had never traveled with one.

  Mo came into the room bearing a laptop computer. “Our man finished his work and tested it around midnight last night,” he said. “We are now up and running.” He set the computer on a desk and plugged it in, then he showed Hamish how to find his way into the secret website.

  “Good,” Hamish said. He entered the three e-mail addresses of his operatives and typed a short message. “Arrived last evening,” he typed. “Request a status report from each of you today. This address is your entry point.” He signed it “Algernon,” sent the message, then he walked across the room to Dr. Kharl’s worktable and inspected the parts arrayed there.